Bedtime Stories
by Professor Maka
Summary: This is a collection of smutty little shorts. In the newest short, "Inked," Soul discovers Maka's secret habit. This one is very lightly smutty, but still, NSFW/M rating for sexually explicit content.
1. One Bed

**A/N: I needed a place to put the slightly NSFW prompt shorts I've been writing, so Bedtime Stories was born. These will all be smut on some level, though hardcore smut is doubtful. This first fic was based on my misreading a prompt from snorlaxslovesme (bed sharing). It is cracky SoMA.**

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**One Bed**

"One bed, one _twin_ bed, are you kidding me?" She was tapping her fingers on the counter impatiently, the dried streak on her hand drawing the nervous gaze of the desk clerk.

"I…I'm sorry, miss, but with the war re-enactors in town, it's all we've got, and you're lucky we have that. There was a last minute cancellation." Sensing her nervousness, Maka let out a breath, stilling her hand.

"Do you have a rollaway?"

"N..no ma'am. With the re-enactors in town they're all—" The clerk had replastered on her fake, bright smile, barely held in place below anxious eyes.

"—booked. Okay, I've got it. Extra blankets, then?"

"We…we had some issues with the service what with the blizzard, and with the re-enactors in town—"

"—Gotcha, one bed, one set of blankets. Fabulous." Maka sighed, holding out a hand. "We'll take it."

"You…will?" the woman, more like a girl she couldn't have been more than 18, blinked in confusion.

"Of course we will, it's the middle of a blizzard and you're the only motel for miles."

"Oh, yes, yes of course. Uh, here you go, miss." She slid over the key. "That'll be—" Maka slid a sleek black card towards her.

"Bill it to the DWMA,"

"Oh, oh! Uh, okay Miss—miss—"

"Albarn."

"Miss Albarn. Have a pleasant night." Maka forced a tired smile, tamping down her annoyance at this entire situation, this whole stupid day. It was hardly this girl's fault that she was the bearer of bad news, the last straw in the comedy of errors that had been this mission.

"You too," she responded with false brightness before turning to walk towards the door. Soul was waiting just outside, his breath coming in clouds of white in the frozen air, the thin awning the only barrier between him and the thickly falling snow.

"'Bout time," he said lazily, his tone one more of exhaustion than of snark.

"Oh, just come on!" she snapped unhappily, trudging through the thick snow past the awning and down past room after room, looking for the one that they would share. She didn't check to make sure he followed, but could hear his footsteps crunching through the snow behind her. The world was too still in the midst of the storm, and she began to mutter to herself just to break the quiet.

"42, 42…ah!" Their room was at the very end, next to a laundry room/concession combination. Slid the old fashioned key into the lock and turned, walking in without a backward glance and hunting for a switch. She heard the door shut firmly behind her as she found the light and, clicking it on, she heard Soul whistle. In no mood, she whirled on him.

"What?"

"It's sort of—small—is all." It really was. The laundry area ate into the space of a standard room, leaving barely space for the twin bed against a wall, a nightstand and lamp, a chair, and a small dresser. There were two doors at the end, across from each other. Maka could only guess that they led to a closet and the bathroom.

"Yeah, so?" It wasn't like she didn't feel the same way, but she really didn't want to hear it right now.

"So…there's one bed. One tiny bed—" she cut him off.

"It was the only room, Soul, and we're stuck in a blizzard in the middle of nowhere. One of us can sleep on the floor, alright? Whoever gets the floor gets the blankets."

"Yeah, whatever." He grumbled in response. "Fuckin' unbelievable. Coin flip then, winner pi—" he was cut off by a loud crack and boom and suddenly, they were in the dark.

"Oh Death," she sighed, rolling her eyes heavenward. "Really?" It just kept getting better. She stormed off towards where she remembered seeing the two doors, her footsteps not faltering in the darkness.

"What the hell, Maka? Where are you going?"

"To take a shower before the hot water goes, where do you think?"

"Oh. Whatever," she heard him let out a loud breath and sighed herself. It was going to be a long night.

Fumbling through the bathroom had not been easy, nor was keeping her shower minimal to make sure Soul got a shot at the quickly cooling water, but 20 minutes later, they were clean and changed and ready to go to bad. The light of a few candles, brought in by the clerk while Maka had still been in the shower, flickered softly. Apparently, the clerk had apologetically warned Soul that they would not have power back until sometime tomorrow, and that meant the heat would be gone as well. Maka groaned at this; there went the idea of someone taking the floor—they'd need to share the bed if they didn't want to freeze in this mess.

Climbing into bed, Maka flattened herself against the wall, peeling back the covers and making as much room for her weapon as she could. Even with her against the wall, he was still snuggled warmly against her and as he tucked the covers around both of them, he settled into a position which could only be described as spooning. The meister colored at the thought, glad Soul could not see her with her back to him; she had imagined this scenario many times, but never like this with both of them reluctant participants, and living it was something else. With nothing but his sleep pants and her sleep shorts and tank top between them, Maka was too aware of his body against hers, how good it felt, how right. He was her weapon and he'd made it clear enough he wasn't interested with all those comments about her fat ankles and her tiny chest—this was stupid. Really, really stupid. Shutting her eyes, she tried to force herself to calm and, the soothing, familiar presence of his body and soul soon lulled her to sleep.

Waking up the next morning with his warmth pressed against her was pleasant, blissful even. And that dream! She had had such dreams beyond counting before, of them being together, but never had they been so vivid. His nearness must have put her sleeping mind into overdrive, so lucid was her memory of the time they'd shared in her dreams, the feel of him, the taste of him and of his name on her lips cried in ecstasy, the perfect music of his voice gasping out her own name like a prayer, the bliss of surrounding him fully, of feeling him fully…

She sighed contentedly, snuggling against him at the memory before realizing two very important things. The first was that she was naked—completely stark naked. The second was that it was not cloth she nestled against but hot flesh, his flesh, part of which was poking against her thigh in a way very evocative of her dr—shit! Shit, shit, shit! What had—had they—was she—?

"Makaaa," she felt as much as heard him mumble sleepily against the skin of her back, causing her to shudder, with dread or anticipation or some mix of the two. "G'back ta sleep. 'kin hear ya thinkin' from here."

_Oh my Death they had—Sweet Shinigami they really had, must have… _She could still feel the stickiness between her legs, the dull, unfamiliar yet not unpleasant ache. In their sleep. In their sleep they had—and did that mean he—oh Death, oh Death, oh Death!

"'M serious, Makaaaa." He whined. "Jus' sleep."

She let out a sigh and allowed herself to snuggle further into his warmth. Whatever had happened had happened—there was no changing it now—and she was still far too exhausted to face it. She supposed they would just have to sort it out when they were both awake. For now, she allowed herself to enjoy the feel of his warm embrace as she drifted back to sleep. She had to admit, it felt an awfully lot like home.


	2. Cabin Fever

**A/N: So this—very questionable thing—was the result of snorlaxslovesme's prompt, Soul and Kid have to share a bed. It is slightly NSFW for sexually explicit content, and I should probably put in a TRIGGER WARNING for molestation to be on the cautious side (there is nothing malicious but—well—you'll see). This is definitely cracky, and well, I wrote it at 4 in the morning on my phone and it shows. It's really more sort of oddly SoMa-y despite the lack of the Ma part than anything. So here, have an odd, odd little drabble.**

**As a final note-do people really want me to continue "One Bed"? It was written as a one shot, but it wouldn't be impossible to write more. It'd take some thought, but it's do-able. **

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**Cabin Fever**

When they walked into the cabin, their home away from home for the night, Soul let out a groan. It was a small place, with only a kitchenette, a fireplace already thoughtfully lit, and a sofa that pulled out into a bed. The only bed. The kishin was dead, its soul currently residing in his stomach with a pleasant warmth, and he was exhausted from maintaining an uneasy resonance with Kid; he just wanted to stretch out and crash. And yet, that was going to be a huge fucking problem.

Whose idea had this been again? Oh, yeah. Stein. Fucking asshole Stein. He remembered the day well, only last week, that the bastard had called him into the death room, his glasses glinting evilly.

"Since you are the Last Death Scythe, Lord Death will need to practice wielding you," he'd insisted smugly. When Soul made some protest along the lines of needing more training with Maka to be ready, Stein just shrugged, his smile making the scythe shudder.

"Well, you could always practice with me if you think you aren't ready." Soul had wanted to punch the sadistic bastard—Kid was his friend and his boss, but Maka was his meister, and they both knew that the only reason Kid would be able to wield him at all is because he was a Shinigami and Soul a deathscythe.

In the end, Kid had agreed to one mission—as he'd admitted to Soul after the professor left, he had no intention of giving up his own weapons, but it was best to appease Stein so they could put it past them.

So here they were, kishin dead, both exhausted (Kid had kept complaining about how heavy and asymmetrical he was,) facing a night in a small cabin with only one bed. One cramped, uncomfortable bed.

Well, maybe it didn't have to be a problem. Maybe his exhaustion, soul deep, was blowing the situation out of proportion; it was just Kid. Yeah, it would be a bit cramped, but it didn't have to be awkward or anything. Soul certainly wasn't interested—Wes might swing both ways but Soul just didn't—and even if he did, Kid was about as sexual as a toaster, so he figured it really was a non-issue. Two friends, crashing in the same bed. Whatever.

Soul stripped down to his boxers and moved towards the bed, glancing back towards Kid.

"Right side or left?" Kid just blinked at him. "Of the bed—do you want the right side or the left?"

"Oh, I see. Right is fine." Kid said, following suit to strip down to boxers and a t-shirt as Soul climbed into the left side of the bed.

It was only a few minutes before both boys were settled, each courteously scooting as far to his edge as physically possible, no part touching. If it were his actual meister on the other side of the bed instead of this—honestly—piss poor substitute (he liked Kid, but death god though he was, the guy was no scythe mesiter,) Soul might have been nervous. The scythe had dreamed of sharing a bed with his meister long and often, and be forced to do so by necessity would have been awkward since she clearly wasn't interested. He'd have been afraid to do something stupid while half asleep.

But this wasn't Maka, this was Kid. No problem, no big deal. Closing his eyes, Soul thought of returning to Death City in the morning, to his meister, and was assured of pleasant dreams.

Knowing it was a dream didn't make it any less good—in fact, it made it even better because he could do and say as he pleased without risk of permanent brain damage.

"Fuck, Maka. You're so wet—somethin' you want," he murmured into her ear. He was pressed to her back, his erection pinned against her ass, his hand arced over the curve of her hip and inching up her thigh to rub the slick heat between her legs.

"Makaaaa," he breathed as he rubbed himself against her wantonly.

"Soul!" Her voice sounded off—husky, even deep with want as her hand shot down to grasp his.

"Mmm-Maka," he moaned into her ear as he thrust against her rear a second time. The dream would be getting good soon. Fuck he loved dreams like this.

He started as he felt his hand being thrust back as Maka shot up, causing Soul to follow suit. His eyes widened as he realized that it was Kid rather than Maka in the bed beside him. What the fuck was up with this dream?

Kid glared at him for a moment before gritting out three crucial words:

"I'm. Not. Maka."

Not a dream, not a dream, _not a death damned dream_! Fuck, had he been…? He looked guiltily at the hand that, moments earlier in his dream, had been exploring Maka. Clearly, that hadn't actually been Maka (if it had he would be dead by now) and his sleepy mind had been fine with superimposing his dream of her onto any available body.

Ugh. Fuck fuck fuck! He just continued staring, frozen in embarrassment as he felt the flush rush up his neck, quick and hot.

"Soul," the Shinigami said flatly. "I don't know what you and Maka do after missions, and quite frankly, I don't care to know, but I would appreciate not acting as her substitute, if you don't mind." The dignity with which Kid spoke such ridiculously embarrassing words was almost comical, and Soul would have laughed if he didn't want to run screaming. He had basically just violated, or at least attempted to violate, one of his best friends in his sleep, by all appearances. Fucking hell. He raked a hand through his hair in agitation, shaking his head. What a nightmare.

"I…I…" he stammered, attempting to find words and failing miserably. "I mean, I was dreaming and in the dream you were—and I mean, I would never—and—uh—fuck man, I was dreaming about Maka. It wasn't—and I—shit, I'm sorry man."

Kid's expression, as unreadable as always in the firelight, never faltered.

"No need to apologize; you were asleep and nothing happened, really. But I suppose this is all the more reason you are best sticking to missions with your meister."

Soul shook his head. Kid getting the wrong idea might end badly for him. Very, very badly; he did not want to come home to a Maka chop. Plus, after that awkwardness, he was pretty sure he owed the Shinigami some version of the truth at minimum. Fuck this was uncool.

"It's not like that, dude. I mean, I wish it was like that, but really, nothin's going on. Not a fucking thing."

"Clearly you are interested."

"Clearly. But all the interest in the world on my end doesn't mean shit without a willing partner. You know how Maka is."

Kid just stared at him for several moments, his yellow eyes disconcerting, before offering him a shrug.

"Perhaps you should try this with her next time."

"I'm not just gonna—"

"I'm pretty sure, if you ask, she won't object." That slight, knowing smile was making him what to punch the Shinigami, as was the ridiculous suggestion. He restrained himself, partially because it wasn't cool to deck your friends, and partially because he'd already done enough to poor Kid tonight, consciously or not. Still, the death god's line of reasoning was absurd. Ask Maka? What? To fuck her? He snorted involuntarily at the thought and ignored Kid's raised eyebrow. Oh yeah, because that wouldn't end with him in a coma.

"I'll just take the floor," Soul mumbled, deciding the conversation had gone on long enough; he just wanted to go back to sleep and forget any of this had ever happened. He grabbed a pillow and the blanket at the foot of the sofabed and, wrapping himself, curled up on the floor. He heard the bed above him shift and figured Kid had decided to go back to sleep as well.

Fuck that was awful—but Kid had seemed so smug at the end. What was the Shinigami getting at? Soul pondered Kid's words as he began to drift back into sleep, his exhaustion retaking him quickly. Maybe he would say something to Maka. Not _that,_ but something. Ask for a date or maybe even a kiss. If he was groping his boss in his sleep, then his feelings for Maka had gone way past any manageable level and Kid had seemed so sure, like he knew something the deathscythe didn't. Suddenly, Soul was dying to find out what and he smiled contentedly as he drifted slowly back into the dream.


	3. Knitting

**A/N: For those of you who have asked me to write real smut, this is it. This is from a tumblr prompt given by the amazing fabulousanima, SoMa knitting smut, written as a follower landmark. It is my first attempt at true, non cracky, full blown sexy times. It is smut eater, the real deal, totally NSFW. Graphic sex, people. Read at your own risk. **

**Smut is hard to write and I make no claims that this is good. There is no real plot-this is smut for smut's sake. I also know squattall about knitting, so any details I messed up with that I apologize for in advance. **

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**Knitting:**

Soul decided to let her suffer for a bit.

Mostly, this was because Maka was really cute when she concentrated, brow furrowed, eyes focused, tongue sticking out ever so slightly as she tried to work the yarn into a knot just so, though a small part of him relished her frustration; she had refused to let him buy the ingredients for chocolate fondue when they went grocery shopping earlier in the week, calling it a frivolous expense they couldn't afford. He'd had plans for that fondue, damnit. Only last month they had finally, after a few months of officially dating, started to do more than just _sleep_ when they shared a bed, and it was fucking amazing and he couldn't get enough, and when she denied him ways to enhance their time together, it pissed him right off. Of course, the fact that she'd been bleeding all last week and he had spent a good deal of time getting intimately reacquainted with his hand also wasn't helping his own frustration level.

Well. He was pretty sure the bleeding was done. Maybe he could help lower the stress level for both of them a notch or five…

"Damnit!" she growled as she eyed the dozenth tangled, knotty mess she'd created in the past half hour. She was biting her lip now as she tried to untangle the mess, destroying all the work she'd done to attempt to make it all anew for the umpteenth time. She let out a heavy sigh.

"It looked so easy on youtube," she pouted. Soul laughed and she threw the hopeless orange mess in his face, her aim deadly accurate and him just missing getting his eye poked out via knitting needle by a quick shift of the head. As it was, it hit him on the ear and he shrugged it off, picking it up where it fell to his lap and eyeing it, his laughter continuing.

"Everything looks easy on youtube," he shrugged, still chuckling as raised his eyes from the yarn to her. "I could teach you, you know."

"You…know how to knit?" she scoffed, shaking her head.

"I do," his laughter had ceased as he looked at her, his face serious. She blinked twice.

"S…seriously?"

"Mmmhmm," his smile was, he hoped, seductive.

"How?"

He shrugged. "Well, you know, Arachne had an affinity for threads, so it's a death scythe thing, I guess." It sounded plausible, but the superior smirk must have betrayed a bit too much the whiff of amusement because she snatched the thick knitting book up from the table in front of her, and he dropped the knitting and threw up his hands in surrender.

"Okay, okay. My grandma taught me. Happy?"

"Really?" She raised one blonde eyebrow skeptically and he shrugged.

He rolled his eyes at her smile, frowning as she began to laugh.

"What?" he snapped.

"It's just—cool guy like you—I never pegged you for the knitting type."

"Hey, I was a kid, I was bored, and I thought it would be cool to make a hat, okay?" Clearly, he was not going to get the opening he had hoped for. He sighed, tossing the mess back her way.

"Okay," she said as she caught it.

"Okay what?"

"Oohhhkay you can teach me." She smiled.

"Oh, right—RIGHT. So, uh, come here." He patted his lap meaningfully. Things were looking up.

"And sitting there is going to help how?" She looked skeptical again.

"You don't trust me?" he said with mock hurt.

"No," she deadpanned, reaching again for the book.

"Fine, fine," his hands went up a second time. "Hand over hand. Now, come here already." He patted his lap again.

"Hand over what?"

"You know, like they teach little kids to write and eat and shit? I'll guide your hands with mine."

Her eyes narrowed. "Souul," she hissed in warning, her tone dangerous. "I am _not_ a k—"

"Do you want to learn or don't you?"

"Fine," she huffed and stomped over to plop ungracefully into his lap. Rough treatment aside, it was _Maka_ and she was warm and it had been a good week, so he had to will down his potential arousal. He really didn't need that. At least, not yet.

Once she was settled, Soul slid his hands slowly and lightly down the length of her arms, trailing goose bumps in his wake as he settled his hands on her wrists. She still had the monstrosity of knotted string and knitting needle clutched in one hand, so he slowly slid his right hand farther down to hers and unpried her fingers one by one, marveling, as he always did, at just how small her hands were. He had never been a big guy and he did not have large hands—long, delicate fingers, yes, but his hands were on the petite side. And yet, compared to hers, they seemed massive and he had always found it an odd contradiction that a woman who was so much the warrior could have such dainty extremities. That he knew what she could _do_ with those extremities, both in battle and especially out of it, threatened a new rush of heat to his groin, so he quelled the impulse again, knowing this was going to end up a losing battle and hoping it was a battle she lost in turn. If the goose bumps and lack of resulting Maka chop were any indication, this outcome was seeming increasingly likely.

As she allowed him to slide the orange stringed horror from her hands, he transformed a scythe finger in a brief flash, cutting away the wasted yarn to slide the needles free, and then, transforming it back, reached past her side to catch up the ball of orange yarn at her knee. He moved it into her lap and then, trailed his own hand from her knee, up her thigh and side, to finally slide it down her arm and back to her wrist. He could feel the heat and sensation where his calloused fingertips met her exposed skin, her tank top and short shorts putting most of her flesh on display. Before, seeing so much of her so often when he was still quashing down feelings of love and longing and sheer _want_ had been little short of absolute torment, necessitating more time alone in his room or the shower than he cared to recall. But now? Fuck, now he loved it because it let him do—well—this.

"Alright," he said softly, his head resting on her shoulder at the crook of her neck, his lips a hairsbreadth from her delicate earlobe, "you need to make a new slip knot. You remember how?" He felt her swallow thickly near his own chin, felt her slight nod. "Good," he breathed as her hands move beneath his grasp, lining up the needle and working the knot. This part, it seemed, she had mastered.

"Time to show me what you've been doing. Start knitting." Without questioning, she began to move her hands, but he had felt her small shudder at the heat of his breath against her neck and ear and couldn't suppress a smile. He was suddenly very glad he'd taken an odd interest in knitting the last summer he'd spent with his grandmother.

As she continued to work, knotting the yarn around the needles, she shifted her pace from hesitant to frantic quickly and Soul suddenly understood the problem.

"Maka, wait," he slid his hands down further over her own to stop her, then turned his head to speak into her ear again. "You're trying to move too fast too soon. You have to start slowly, then build up to a steady rhythm. It's not a race, it's a marathon, and if you try to do it too quickly, everything falls apart in the blink of an eye. This is why you keep making tangles. It's…more like a dance than a competition. Slow, steady, work together with the yarn and the needle, not against them. I know you can dance, Maka." His lips just brushed her earlobe as he breathed her name and she shuddered again. As he slid his hands back up to her wrists, she began to move them more slowly, rhythmically. But Soul saw another problem, and he slid his hands back over hers to stop her again.

"Too tight, Maka," he said softly, this time his mouth remained against her earlobe. "You should be caressing the needle with the yarn, not strangling it. There has to be room to slide the needle, to slide it out." He felt her swallow hard for a second time and nod as she left her knots more slack. She worked several more knots, moving her hands and the needles with the yarn steadily before Soul spoke again, moving his mouth back to her ear to enjoy her reaction.

"What are you knitting?" Her hands paused in their repetition for a moment.

"I don't know. A scarf, maybe."

"Mmmm…well, you need to decide how long and thick you want it," he got so close to her ear that he took her earlobe between his lips for the barest instant. "So you know where to stop." Maka couldn't hide her flush at this and he smiled against her ear. Death, this was the best knitting he'd ever done.

"I…I think this might be thick enough," she said hesitantly after a moment. The string of knotted yarn spread a good eight inches along the needle.

"You know how to slide it out and switch?" He had pulled his mouth from next to her ear to eye her work.

"I…yeah," she said hesitantly as she slowly moved the needle out and switched, then began a new row of ties. She had actually managed it with a bare but acceptable level of competence, so he let her keep working and, deciding she was doing well enough to allow him to relax his attention on her hands, Soul began to place light kisses, beginning on her earlobe and then trailing down her neck.

"Wha—Soul…" her tone was half warning, half breathless anticipation.

"Wanna make sure you can do it distracted," he moved his mouth back against her ear. "You should be able to knit through anything once you have it down."

She didn't respond, but returned to moving her fingers and he took her earlobe between his lips again and began to suck, then nipped it lightly, reveling in her quickening, stuttering breaths and small, suppressed shudders. Even still, as he moved his mouth down again and ventured a glance at her hands, they kept working, and he smiled and returned to his ministrations, opening his mouth to suck lightly on the delicate skin of her neck and relishing each and every shudder before finally murmuring against her skin, "you're doing well."

"Y…you, too." She managed to stammer out and that was all he needed.

His hands moved from their place on her wrists to trail goose bumps back up her arms, then down her sides, caressing her skin softly even as he shifted his head to pay his respects to the other side of her neck, his soft chaste kisses quickly graduating into sucking and nipping. He timed his first nip with moving his hands over the swell of her breasts and he felt her stiffen and stifle a soft moan as she leaned further into him. He moved his eyes back down to her hands again, but they had stilled as she panted against him.

"Souuul…" it was a breathless plea, a protest against his own stilled hands and mouth.

"You should keep knitting," he smiled against her and rubbed a thumb over the thin cloth covering her nipple for emphasis, eliciting another soft, stifled moan. She always went braless around the apartment, another once torturous fact that he had come to love. He knew he was long since hard against the warmth of her ass on his lap, and it was becoming increasingly torturous and uncomfortable to feel so confined, but he made no move to change it, instead keeping his focus on her, on sucking on the closest ear while sliding his hands back down and then under her shirt, a pert breast in each hand. He massaged for a short time, simply rubbing and squeezing while avoiding the nipples, before moving his fingers slowly, so slowly, to first rub and caress, and then, finally, as she writhed more and more in his lap, softly pull at them, enjoying the texture of the hardened, puckered flesh beneath his fingertips.

Occasionally, she would stop moving her hands as he worked her flesh, but he would always pause in his ministrations when she did and, getting the hint, she would keep shakily knitting through her moans and gasps and pants. As he pulled slightly more roughly on her nipples, timed with a hard suck and nip to the joining of her shoulder and neck, her wiggling became a hard grind of her ass down against her own hard arousal and he had to stifle his own gasp of need and pleasure. She had, as he glanced around to her hands, somehow managed to finish a third line now and was starting a fourth without a single tangle. Well, he meant to change that… clearly, he wasn't being distracting enough.

One hand trailed down from her breast, down her stomach to the low waist band of her too-short shorts, lingering for only a moment before diving under the fabric. He was met with the fabric of her bikini cut panties and trailed his hand down and around, even as his other hand kept rubbing slow circles on a nipple. Finally finding the jointure of her hip with her thigh, he slid his hand down, caressing just beside the heat radiating from her growing need, enjoying her gasps and the sheer hot moisture that could no longer be contained by too thin cloth, but had seeped to the place just beside, feeding his own mounting need.

"Soul," she panted. But her hands had stilled and so did he.

"Yes, Maka?" he replied huskily.

"I…"

"Knitting, remember?" he responded for her. She nodded shakily and, in reward, he slid his fingers over to caress over the fabric of her soaked panties, moving up and down the covered slit. Watching her hands and her body, he noted that even through her shuddering moan she did not completely still her hands, and he rewarded that diligence again by moving aside the fabric of her panties to slide his finger into the wet wonderland that was her sex, slipping past her labia and along her outer length to find her clit, already hard and aching for his touch. He stopped for the barest instant as he noticed, again, the stilled needles, then moved again as they did, stroking her with one long finger, his own need on fire at the feel of her so hot and wet and willing, at her writhing in his lap at his touch even as she _kept fucking knitting._

Noticing that she was, even now, shakily starting a fifth row, he slid his hand down again, one long finger sliding along her hot, wet length for a second time to reach the source of the fountain. As he teased that finger along her entrance, he breathed against her ear.

"Maka, you're making a mess." She arched against him and moaned as he slid his finger inside of her, putting pressure against her textured inner walls, looking for that place inside that would leave her a shuddering mess. He knew he'd found it when she let out a high pitched wail, her whole body bucking and grinding down against him, causing him to moan against her neck in response. His own need was becoming almost overwhelming, the feel of her, hot and wet and tightening on his finger and the thought of how good that was going to feel when he finally used more than just his finger sheer torment, but he wasn't going to go there yet. Not just yet. If there was one thing he had come to know in their many weeks of experimentation, of getting to know her body and his own and how they worked together, it was that drawing it out, leaving her begging for him, having himself begging, it made it better, so much better. So he forced restraint, he was pretty damned good at restraint, and kept teasing that fold of flesh inside of her that had her keening.

The stitches of her knitting had become slightly less steady, he noted, but she was still working at it, shakily, breathlessly, slowly, between shuddering moans and gasps and grinding down against his arousal with her fucking amazing ass. She was working on a final stitch of the fifth row when she stopped knitting, pressing her back along his length after an almost sobbing keen. His own hand was soaked inside of her, and he could feel the hot moisture of his precum as he continued to strain against his jeans.

"Soul, I need…I neeeed…" she was practically sobbing, her plea vocal and broken.

"What do you need, Makaah…" he breathed against her ear. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised when she twisted in his lap, the knitting thrown to the coffee table, his hand losing its purchase inside of her. She straddled him, her eyes green flame as they met his, as she ground down onto his long overstrained need even as she worked at the button of his jeans.

"You," she gasped as she ground down again, rubbing herself forcefully against the hardness in his jeans. All restraint gone, seared away by the heat of her gaze, he pushed her down onto the couch then awkwardly shucked off his jeans and boxers in an odd half standing crouch above her, even as he watched her struggle to wiggle out of her own shorts and panties from her place on her back.

"I think that's enough knitting," he managed, even as he felt her hand, warm and wonderful, grasping his length. He stepped hastily out of his pants, kicking his discarded clothing to the side and looking down at her, her eyes slits of want and promise as she stroked his length once, twice. He moved to kneel over her but she shook her head.

"Shirt too." She said huskily, and as she continued to grasp him, moving hot, skilled fingers down to occasionally stroke his balls or to spread his precum and work that maddening spot where his head met his shaft, that small, wicked, wonderful spot she had discovered without him even having to tell her early in their times together, he moaned and ripped his own t-shirt over his head forcefully before practically diving between her thighs in his own need. As his length met the impossible heat between her labia, he slid along it, reveling in the hot wetness even as all he really fucking wanted was to plunge deep inside of her and never come out. But he could hold back this much, this long. Finally having full access to her front with his mouth, he trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses from one breast to the other, finally licking and sucking and nipping, moaning every time she bucked against him in the intensity of her pleasure. He was slowly working the tip of his dick against her clit and it had her keening his name; the feel of her heat and the sobbing of his name vibrating from her chest, it was almost too much. He was going to lose it before he even really felt her or she felt him and that just wasn't fucking acceptable at all. So he pulled back his throbbing cock, sitting back on his knees and moving the hands that had been tangled in her hair or under her ass, back down to caress her thighs.

"Soul…" it was half whine, half warning, her eyes narrowed further in need and frustration.

"Soon," came his promise and his prayer, his voice husky with want, followed with the placating presence of two fingers inside of her molten heat, caressing, seeking. Her sob let him know he had found the place once more, that spot within her folds that would soon have her begging, and he stroked with gentle force even as his free hand moved up to kneed a breast once more. He was willing his own overwhelming need to cool enough that he wouldn't lose it like a fucking virgin the moment he was inside of her (in truth, their first time he had lasted a good three thrusts and felt like a total chump,) though it was almost impossible with the feel of her clenching around him, her own need visible and slick on her now soaked thighs. Her moans and gasps were like a symphony and he played her like the musician he was, reveling in each wail, each cry of his name.

"Fuck, Soul, I need… please…" Ah, this was what he had wanted, what he had been waiting for. He stilled his hand, trailing it up her stomach and her breast, letting her feel her own urgency cooling against her skin. He was kneeling between her legs again, his eyes pinning her gaze.

"What?"

"Please?" Her eyes pleaded as well as she squirmed beneath him, bucking up against him, needing.

"What do you need, Maka? Tell me what you want me to do." He loved this part, loved hearing it, having her say what she would never say otherwise. Loved the complete trust she put in him, the trust he put in her in turn.

"I need…" she stammered as he moved himself against her clit ever so slightly, his own cock twitching at the delicious contact, causing her to moan again. Her eyes were heavily lidded as she looked up at him. "…you. Please. Inside of me." He moved his mouth to work against her neck, sucking, hot against her flushed and sensitive skin, but doing nothing more before he breathed against her ear.

"My fingers were just there, but you wanted something else. _What do you want, Maka?_"

"Fuck, Soul. I want you. I want your cock..in..inside of me." He grinned against her heated skin and slid himself down and slowly in, her molten heat surrounding him almost a form of madness. It took every ounce of his restraint not to do more, but as he slid completely within her he stilled.

"Soul…" she whined. "Please…?" Her voice was broken with want; it matched his own overwhelming desire.

"What?" his own broken voice demanded. "I'm inside you." He wanted, needed her to tell him, the culmination of their game. He felt her clench around him, felt her buck against him, even as she gasped.

"Move. Fuck me—Death, please. Please fuck me." It was what he had waited so long to hear and the dam burst, his own overwhelming need taking over as he reared back to thrust inside of her again. He repeated the movement, her delicious heat overwhelming, the feel of her clenching and tightening around him, the feel of having to force his way back in with every thrust as she became so tight it felt like she wanted to swallow his cock whole. He found her mouth at last, kissing her deeply, tasting every gasp and moan. This felt so good. It had never been this good, even when….

Fuck. Oh fuck. He stilled within her again, panting, so close to the edge it was physically painful not to continue, but he couldn't, wouldn't. About to pull out, to go do what must be done in spite of everything within him screaming no, she looked up at him in question.

"Soul?"

"Condom," he practically growled, and as relief and understanding flooded her features he was doubly confused. She thrust up against him, pulling him down into a searing kiss, her hot tongue sliding along the length of his own, before pulling back and speaking against his lips.

"Pill. I started the pill last month, remember?" Oh. OH. Well, fuck. Second month, no more back up. He growled against her mouth, reinitiating the kiss and thrusting again inside of her, but she pulled away from his mouth after a moment.

"Wait!" she gasped. He moved his head up, confused.

"I…I thought…" in spite of it all, the fact he was buried deep within her, that she had only minutes ago been begging for him, she looked a little embarrassed, her flush deepening. "Maybe we could, uh, try something. Um, new?"

"Okay…?" he knew his voice was husky with need.

"R…resonate with me?"

Oh. OH. Yeah, he could do that. That would be… oh. He nodded, and she whispered "Soul Resonance," and their souls reached, and touched, and grabbed hold, and suddenly he wasn't just inside her but _inside of her_ and she was inside of him, and it was all sensation and need and as she thought _move_ he did, over and over again as he felt it all, every move, every sensation, of filling and being filled, of thrusting, of pushing back, of tightening, of forcing past that tightness.

If not having a condom on, of feeling every fold within her, of her feeling every ridge and line of him, had not been different and amazing enough, feeling it all through this, this link, this ultimate _oneness_ was exponentially greater, and as he lost his grip on all that he was in her, in _them,_ and finally exploded inside of her, coming with a heat and intensity that was pushed beyond any limit as he felt her feel his throbbing, searing release inside of her, triggering her own, as she pulsed around him and they both cried out, mutual, wordless cries of ecstasy, beyond all sense, beyond anything but overwhelming pleasure, the overwhelming sense of being two in one, together.

Even with his release and hers, their resonance filling him with everything that was Maka and everything that was _them_ together, he started moving again within her, hearing and feeling and knowing her gasp at the feel of him within her oversensitive core. He was still hard, and it still _felt good_, so he moved and she moved and they became lost in each other for the second time in as many minutes, his name becoming a chant of panted gasps on her lips, his own lips seeking hers again, their hot tongues sliding against one another a mirror to their heat sliding together once more below. He went slower this time, less desperate, letting it build once more. He felt her hand snake between them, felt her pleasure mount as she began to rub herself with the hand trapped by his thrusts. Another minute later of her slick, slick heat getting tighter and tighter around him again, of moans and gasps and increasingly forceful thrusts, and they were undone once more, hurled into the stratosphere and beyond for the second time in a brief span, left panting and twitching, his finally softening member still inside her own throbbing, sopping, overwrought flesh. The sense of one, together remained through their resonance. The awe and amazement of what had happened, of both having come _twice,_ was still on their minds, overwhelming their every thought.

He pulled out with a soft hiss, laying atop her, panting, her panting beneath him. When her mind sleepily sighed _bed_ he knew she meant sleep, and they both shakily got to their feet, her unceremoniously grabbing his wadded t shirt to try to stem the flow of other between her legs, before they both staggered into bed. They cut their resonance as they cuddled together on his bed, warm and safe as they drifted into their dreams.

The strip of knitting, Maka decided the next day, would be a bookmark. For awhile, she even tried to use it, but as she later admitted to him, found that she could never quite get any reading done because every time she saw it, her mind reeled back to that night and _him _andany other thought was beyond her ability to focus, then. So she put the bookmark up, but every now and again, when she was particularly absorbed in a good, long book, it would find its way back, and having no doubt how it got there, she would seek the culprit for appropriate punishment. Soul never, never minded taking her punishment.

There was, of course, another consequence to this little escapade, awkward and unforeseen. For the rest of their born days, neither Soul nor Maka could hear or speak of knitting without becoming instantly aroused, and while this sometimes proved embarrassing and inconvenient, knitting yet remained a source of pleasure between them for years to come.


	4. Tongues

**A/N: You can thank Marsh of Sleep's badfic bingo for this one. I moved this from my other collection because I was a bit tired of people ignoring the warning label. There is second hand smut here, explicit sexual content, rated M/NSFW. You have been warned. **

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There was only the briefest knock before her door burst open and he came strutting in, looking down at her with a slight frown. Maka glanced at him out of the corner of one eye before returning her gaze to the book in front of her.

"Hey—you've been holed up in here all day. You're gonna start sprouting mushrooms if you don't move soon. Plus, it's your turn to make dinner and I'm getting hungry." The meister gave no answer from her place on her bed where she lay sprawled out, stomach down.

"Earth to Maka?" Soul leaned over the bed, his voice tinged with annoyance.

"I'll do it in a minute, let me just finish this p—Soul!" she screeched as he snatched up her book and took several steps back. She flipped to her side and looked towards him, seething.

"Give. It. Back." The girl said from between clinched teeth. The white haired boy just shook his head, grinning.

"Wanna see what's so damned interesting." Maka glared at him in warning, reaching beside her for a book that was no longer there. For the moment, she was disarmed; Soul's grin widened at the realization.

"So let's see…" his hand still marked the pages she'd been on as he'd grabbed it, and he scanned down now and settled on a passage. "…their tongues battled for dominance, but it was a battle that she was destined to lose as he shoved his tongue deep inside her mouth." Soul laughed, shaking his head. "'Tongues battled for dominance'—how the fuck would that even work? It's just lame."

"How should I know?" She looked pissed, her green eyes flashing. "It's not like I've tried it. Now give it back."

"What the hell are you reading anyway?" He flipped the book to eye the cover and laughed louder. "_Hearts Aflame_? Sounds fascinating." Maka's complexion shifted significantly into the magenta end of the spectrum.

"Liz recommended it," she mumbled, the fierceness having drained from her now downturned gaze.

"Then it _must_ be good." He began to scan the book again, skipping to the next page and scanning further. "Ah, here we go. 'She gasped as his thick, rough fingers moved down to ignite the hot throbbing bud of her womanhood'—'da fuck? Why not just say he fingered her cl—"

"SOUL!" she shrieked, bolting upright on the bed and thrusting out her hand in expectation.

"I'm not done," he said, moving farther towards the door in anticipation as she stood up. "'She shuddered as she reached down timidly to grasp his hard, hot, throbbing member. Holy shit, she thought as her hand could not reach around his enormous girth.'" He had backed out the door as he read, avoiding her as she stalked towards him. The scythe maneuvered so that the kitchen table was between them and grinned at her. "'Hard, hot, throbbing member?' Who writes this shit?" She was moving around the table now and he edged the other way, ready to bolt if necessary. But she was a meister; she was faster. She reached him in two angry strides and snatched the book up, then quickly used it to whack him over the head.

"Makaaaa chop!" she shrieked. As he sprawled on the floor below her, she looked down at him triumphantly, her face red with embarrassment and anger.

"Ya know," he smirked up at her lazily. "If you were really that curious, you could have just asked someone."

"A…asked what?"

"To experiment. You know, see if tongues really do battle for dominance or whatever the fuck." Somehow, impossibly, she turned even more red.

"I…I don't…" Maka sputtered. "And anyway, who would I…?"

His only response was to waggle his eyebrows suggestively at her.

"UGH gross!" she screamed in frustration, throwing her book at his head. "KEEP it! And you can make your own damned dinner you… you… pervert!" She stalked off, her door slamming behind her. Soul couldn't decide if he was more amused by the whole thing, annoyed he'd have to make dinner now, or hurt that she found the very idea of practicing with him "gross." Picking himself up off the linoleum, he grabbed the book and placed it on the counter. Well, at least if he made dinner she might forgive him.

As he began to get out the ingredients for curry, he wondered idly if kissing his meister really would involve tongues battling for dominance. Somehow, he doubted it, but he would love to find out. Perhaps with her reading crap like that, some day she might even let him try.


	5. Unconventional

**A/N: This is real smut eater, totally M/NSFW, graphic sex people. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. It's also a bit on the fluffy side as smut goes. It has an odd, shifting omniscient perspective past the initial expositional narration that will, hopefully, be easy enough to follow. **

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**Unconventional:**

They never did things quite the way people expected them to, quite the way they were supposed to in anyone else's eyes. It wasn't something purposeful, something planned. It just was.

Like resonance. They had collected 99 kishin souls without being able to resonate properly, 99 kishin souls and one cat soul, actually. 100 souls, all the old fashioned hack and slash way. It was unheard of, to do so so young, to do so by simple slash and kill, but they had done it. Everyone would have expected Maka Albarn, top of her class, meister protégé, daughter of the greatest weapon-meister team Shibusen had ever seen, to resonate well and truly, to do so quickly and without issue. And when they hadn't? Everyone had expected that maybe they never would, or maybe they would patch together some half assed bond that would barely pass muster, or maybe the meister would finally ditch her sarcastic, lazy weapon for someone more driven. Yet, when they finally got it, they _got it,_ and their resonance, their soul bond, had become the envy of the school.

Actually, in the beginning, no one had expected the friendly bookworm and the odd looking, caustic scythe to last more than a week as partners, but they had.

And then, years later, just before the battle on the moon, when they were so close that every look, every touch, screamed their feelings to everyone who saw them, everyone expected they were dating, but they weren't. Everyone expected them to start dating any minute, any second, but they hadn't. Everyone seemed to know it was love but Soul and Maka themselves. It took them a long, long time to figure it out, or declare it, or share it, and it wasn't until over a year after the incident on the moon that they finally, for whatever reason, did. It wasn't like anything much changed from the outside—only Black*Star had spied a stolen kiss in the hall, and suddenly, when people asked Soul if Maka was his girlfriend, or Maka if Soul was her boyfriend, neither denied it.

No, they never did things quite as they were expected to do them. Not as weapon and meister, not in love, not with sex.

Yes, sex. That was next in the progression, wasn't it? And everyone had figured, close as they were, once they declared their undying love and whatnot and were together, the weapon and meister would be completely_together. _Even Spirit had been so convinced that the younger scythe had defiled his daughter that he had sat the boy down for a serious and confusing talk about Maka, sex, being safe, and not breaking her heart _you cocky little shit_ the instant they'd been caught kissing, and long before anything else could even hope to occur.

Because nothing had occurred. Soul and Maka didn't work that way. It didn't matter that they had long since considered each other's personal space fair game and open season, long before kissing had engaged in little touches and hand holding, and snuggling. It didn't matter that they were utterly _comfortable_with one another, body and soul. Everyone had assumed that if the far less physically demonstrative meister-weapon couple Black*Star and Tsubaki had jumped into bed the very night they confessed their attraction (and pretty much the whole school was aware of this fact, much to the shadow weapon's chagrin, because her meister had a big mouth,) then surely Soul and Maka, with all that touching and meaningful glancing, would do the same.

Only they wouldn't, they hadn't. And, two months after an accidental kiss that led to stammered confessions, they still hadn't really progressed beyond kissing and snuggling and holding hands. Hands had roamed, but only to safe territory, kisses had deepened, but nothing beyond.

Maybe it was because Maka was still afraid, so afraid, of screwing things up. Afraid that if she gave into her own sometimes overwhelming physical need, she would become somehow like her father. If they took things slowly, carefully, didn't become too caught up in that desire she was well aware they both felt, maybe it would all turn out okay. Or maybe it was because Soul could sense her hesitation and, as in most things, let her take the lead. She set the pace, and so far, the pace was agonizingly, torturously slow.

Trips to the bathroom or a bedroom were frequent for both, though separately, particularly after their intense but controlled make out sessions, where heated kisses were exchanged, where lips met necks and throats and ears, where hands roamed down arms and up thighs and tangled into hair, but where nothing more occurred. Both were always left panting for more when Maka would inevitably push her weapon come boyfriend away, claiming exhaustion, or suggesting they should watch television, or exclaiming a need to use the restroom. Or, or, or—anything but continue down the road they were on, which was skirting dangerously close to hands on pert breasts, or underneath too short skirts, or grasping arousal clearly straining beneath stiff denim.

When a new line was finally drawn in the sand, long after anyone would have thought possible, it was, as so many things for the two of them, because Maka decided to cross it. It was a Saturday night, one in which, as had become the norm over the past two months, their movie viewing had quickly turned into something else. Cuddled together on the couch so snuggly, it took very little, a stray touch, a warm smile, to provoke their mutual ardor, to turn movie night into make out night.

On this particular night, it was well into their make out session, high time that Maka pushed away and ran to the bathroom or bedroom or anywhere but here and now. How many times had they done this, had she done this? His hands felt achingly good squeezing her hips, just riding up hot and needy over her waist. Her own hands tangled in his hair again as he began to trail wet kisses down her neck, his tongue darting out to tease soft skin, causing her to bite back a moan. It always felt so good, and later, as she touched herself in the bath or in the bed, she knew she would think of how much better it would feel if she didn't hold them back, if it were _him_ doing the touching, riding thoughts of him to orgasm, biting back the impulse to cry out his name in her ecstasy. She was entirely certain he did the same, spending his time alone with her on his mind, thoughts of her hand where his would be, and that knowledge kindled her own flame higher and brighter.

It was always the same. She wondered, silently, if the fact that she was tired of it was a sign that it was time to do more, go further. Would there be harm, really, in letting him touch more? In touching more herself? She ached to feel him, to know what it would be like to grasp him, hold him, stroke him. Would the skin be soft? Would he be hot? Would he moan and gasp at her touch as he did when she kissed just the right spot on his neck or when she nibbled his lip? And what would it feel like, to be touched by him in those places she had forbidden them to go. To feel his hands stroking the needy flesh of her breasts, the aching heat of her clit.

Maka might be prone to hesitate about some things, but when she did finally decide, it tended to happen quickly. Suddenly, she decided. What harm, to have his hand stroke her heat instead of her own? To stroke his in turn? They already thought of each other as they pleasured themselves. Why not simply exchange hands? That wasn't much farther than they went here, a small step, a baby step. Not intercourse, they didn't have to go there yet in order to go here, do this.

Her choice made, she moved one hand slowly, teasingly, from its place in his hair to trail down his neck, then chest.

For his part, Soul felt her hand and thought she must be about to push him away, push them apart as she generally did at this point, resigned himself to it as much as he wanted more, so much more. He expected it every second, even as her warm little hand teased the flesh of his stomach and he bit his lip, bit down on his gasp of need, even as he wished and willed that her hand would keep moving, keep going, that she would finally touch him where he had ached for her touch for so long.

As her hand lingered at the waistline of his jeans, he expected her to flee at any moment, disappointment flaring unbidden. He gave her neck a hard suck, the intensity of his action a promise and a plea. Maka gasped, and he felt her shiver her pleasure before her hand began to move once more, not to push him away as he expected, but to travel farther down, just brushing against the hardness in his jeans, just brushing against that part of him he had been praying for her to touch all this while, soft, hesitant, searing, and not nearly enough. He wanted _more_ even as this was all he had ever wanted. Her feather light touch along the top of his jeans was slow torture, her tracing of his hardness the most exquisite, most teasing thing he had ever experienced. He couldn't stifle his moan, still his impulse to move his hand up where he had never dared touch, taking her cue, grazing the side of her breast. She gasped in return, and he felt her shiver beneath his fingertips; taking that and her own wandering hand as a sign, a shift in the boundary, he ventured his hand over the swell of her breast, enjoying the feel of her flesh, warm and soft in his hand even through the fabric of her tank top. He enjoyed her soft moan, the slight arch of her body at his touch, the feel of her hardened nipple in his palm as he squeezed softly.

At the feel of his hand on her breast, where she had so long ached to feel it, had so often denied her longing, Maka's faint touch became firm, forcefully groping his hard length under the rough fabric of his jeans. She wanted to feel more and, as his breathing became unsteady in her ear, as her own breath caught at the feel of him teasing first one then another nipple through the fabric of her shirt, she quickly moved her hand up, pulling at the snap of his jeans to leave enough room to snake her hand underneath the denim. She dug beneath the fabric of his boxers without ceremony, needily grasping his hot, stiff cock in her hands, so unexpectedly soft and silky, yet so _warm_ and hard. It was foreign, yet wonderful, this part of him she had dreamed of touching so long now twitching in the palm of her hand. Gratified by his ragged moan at her initial touch, eager to find out what pleased him, to hear him cry his pleasure, she began to move her fingers along his length, exploring with soft touches and firm ones, trying to figure out where he liked to be touched, where it would feel best, how she might bring him to the brink and beyond.

"Maka," his voice was low, her hand holding him, stroking him, a form of insanity, his mind entirely filled with her touch and the feel of her flesh beneath his hands. Soul moved his own hands down and beneath the fabric of her shirt and, encountering neither protest nor resistance, palmed a bare breast. While he mourned the momentary stilling of her hand, he enjoyed her moan against his ear, throaty, needy.

"Soul," she gasped, and suddenly he felt her free hand leave his hair, felt it grasp one of his own hands and guide it down her torso, down to the fabric of her sleep pants and beneath.

"Please," Maka breathed in his ear, even as her pace quickened on his shaft, her fingers spreading sticky precum over his head, working it over his tip, feeling to finally reach that vein along the bottom, that spot where it met his head, that made him moan and gasp, causing him to forget, for the barest instant, that his hand was now poised above her panties, the fabric soaked by her rising desire. The feel of that, her wetness, her heat underneath the fabric, underneath his hand, elicited another gasp from him and a simultaneous gasp from her as he began to stroke along the fabric, along the still covered slit of her womanhood. Soul couldn't believe he was touching her, that she was touching him. Her hand felt so _good_, so _right,_ and he wanted nothing more than to feel her against his heated skin forever as he continued to stoke her covered sex, to feel her maddening touch on his skin, to feel her soft breast in his other hand.

"More," she panted, turning her mouth to kiss and lick the skin of his neck, lifting her bottom ever so slightly from her place straddling his knee to give him better access. Never one to deny his meister, he slid aside the soaked strip of cloth he had been stroking, slid a finger along her hot length for the barest instant before working it between her wet folds. Her moan, the tightening of her grasp around his own length, the feel of her so hot and wet and needy, caused him to moan in turn, to feel around for that part of her he knew he should find, though he had no experience to rely on, to tell him precisely where. After a few moments of feeling, blindly, his finger finally hit upon a part of her that felt hot and hard, puckered beneath her wetness and his touch, and as his finger ran over it, her soft gasp of his name, her stilled hand, was all he needed to hear, He began to stroke, reveled in her own quickened pace, her index finger running over that most sensitive part of him, that place where head and shaft met, over and over again, causing him to shudder, his own fingers working over her hot flesh causing her to do the same, to writhe and moan and finally gasp.

"Soul!," her moan tore from her lips, unbidden, and his echoing "Maka," the feel of his cock twitching once beneath her fingers, made her shiver with pleasure. This, _this_ was surely better than being shut up in her room, trying to bite back her cries of his name, imagining fingers that felt so much better on her skin than her dreams of them ever could. Maka could not have imagined how his slight callouses would feel, rough yet soft against her, how feeling him stroke her, swirling his fingers, changing his pace, quick then slow then quick again, would leave her panting and gasping, how the feel of his hot length in her hand, so warm, so soft, so impossibly big and needy, weeping and twitching with her every touch, would leave her aching for him, even as his fingers worked to satisfy that ache. She wanted this, needed this. She wanted more than this, needed more than this, too, but this could be enough. It was more than she had ever imagined, less than she ultimately knew she desired, but it could suffice because it was so much greater than anything they had done before, so much more fulfilling.

Maka quickened her pace unbidden, her own moans tearing through her at his ministrations, loud and raw and uncontrollable, Soul's answering grunts and gasps building her own pleasure, building his in turn. They fed off each other, their mutual touch, their mutual sound, spontaneous and ragged and beautiful, this music they made together. She felt herself getting close to the edge, her fingers seeking his hot, soft tip once, twice, felt him twitch against her hand, heard his ragged cry of her name, his hot seed spilling against her palm. At the feel of him, twitching and spurting, she imagined what it would feel like against her, inside of her, and she cried out his name in her turn as his relentless fingers and the image of him, so hot and hard inside of her, pushed her over the edge.

Her voice was ragged in her own ears, her moan more like a scream, long and aching, his name on her lips pleading and reverent. She had never come so hard, not by her own hand, and she knew that she would never wish to go back to her own hands when she could have _his._

The meister collapsed against her weapon, spent, panting for breath for several minutes, feeling his own pants beneath her, the rise and fall of his chest, his hand snaking out of her panties to draw her closer, trapping her own hand in his jeans. She moved back, looking at him sheepishly as she pulled her hand out and away, eyeing the cooling evidence of his release speculatively.

"We should probably clean up," she mumbled, coloring, sliding off his lap to make for the sink. Maka glanced back to see her scythe rise and shuffle uncomfortably towards his room. She returned her focus to her hand, washing carefully, then drying, marveling at what she had just done, what they had just done together. She had shoved them across the line she'd drawn, and she knew there was no going back. Thinking to what had just happened, how good it had felt, how right, she could not regret it.

It wasn't another moment before Soul softly padded out of his room, dressed in only sleep pants, and moved up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her to him. She felt good in his arms, so small and soft and warm, and he couldn't help breathing in her scent through her hair with a contented sigh. This had been what he'd wanted for weeks, months, years, longer. Not everything he'd wanted, maybe, but so much more than he'd ever felt until now.

"We should go to bed," he murmured against the back of her ear and she nodded, slightly, her assent.

"Mmmmhmmm."

"My room?" he asked, though he needn't have. He had the bigger bed, and while they might do nothing but cuddle or kiss, they had taken to sharing it weeks ago.

"Mmmmhmmm."

His only response was to spin her in his arms, eliciting a surprised gasp, before planting a soft kiss on her hairline. She smiled up at him and then, wriggling from his arms, pulled him by the hand to bed.

Quickly settled, Maka in his arms, her body molded pleasantly against his, Soul couldn't help but smile against the back of her head, a smile that widened as she spoke softly.

"Goodnight, Soul. I love you."

"I love you, too." He said easily, marveling at how even such powerful words failed to represent everything he meant by them, everything they represented for him. He pulled her that slight bit closer, trying to convey through touch what he could not through words and decided, perhaps in what they had done tonight, what they had shared, he might have begun to let her feel what she meant to him, what she would always mean to him.

No, Soul and Maka never did anything the way they were expected to, waiting so long for every half step, relishing every small change, sharing their space and their bed long before they shared their bodies. But that was them, together, their path, their choice, and as they drifted into contented slumber, neither would change it.


	6. Twenty-one Candles

**A/N: So this one was from a tumblr prompt from Chiceit, 21st Birthday celebration afterglow. This is barely NSFW, a very light dusting of smut, but there is still some, so it can't be put into my normal drabble spot. It's really no dirtier than, say, Cabin Fever, though far more fluffy and sweet. **

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**Twenty-one Candles:**

It finally happened on her twenty-first birthday. They'd been dancing around their feelings for years, hinting, teasing, too afraid to do more, to ruin what was firm and _real_ between them for something that might change everything. Maka, in particular, had always feared crossing that line—and Soul tended to follow her lead.

So they had skirted the line, practically straddling it with all the cuddling and hand holding and sharing their lives in every other possible way, but they had never, never crossed it.

That was, until they finally did.

Black*Star, being Black*Star, had insisted that Maka, as his oldest and most loyal follower, should have a celebration for this landmark occasion, one befitting her status. In the eyes of the would-be god, this of course meant a loud, raucous party complete with ridiculous quantities of alcohol that he had, by some form of wheedling or threat or combination thereof, convinced Kid to throw at Gallows Manor. Black*Star had consequently spent the evening drunk enough to bellow about his godhood in ways he had rarely done since he was 15 and Kid, his weapons, and Tsubaki spent their evening doing damage control, which left Maka and Soul largely to their own devices. It might have been her party, but it was a party, with a lot of booze and loud music and dancing, and no one particularly seemed to care who it had been thrown for just as long as the booze kept flowing.

What no one would have expected, least of all Soul, is that Maka would also drink. A lot. It started when she was handed an innocuous looking glass of orange liquid by a passing waiter shortly after they'd arrived and, curious, had put it to her lips for a sip. At her weapon's raised eyebrow (Maka Albarn did_not _drink,) she shrugged.

"It's my twenty-first birthday, Soul. I think I'm allowed to try a drink or two. Aside from which, this seems to be mostly orange juice." She drained the drink in a few minutes and asked for another, getting one for her weapon as well and laughing when she was told the name (it was a Screwdriver), before handing her weapon one when refills arrived.

"Nah, I gotta drive home," he raised his hands to refuse.

"We can crash here—plus one or two drinks will be out of your system by the end of the night. Come on, Soul, please? How many times am I going to turn twenty-one?" Maka was a full adult now and for once in her life, she was going to completely let loose. They were among friends. What harm could there be in a few drinks?

Soul sighed, but complied. It was her birthday, after all.

By the time Maka was on her third such drink and Soul his second, she managed to drag him from the fringes of the room to the dance floor. It was alive with activity, loud trance fusion and techno music blaring, lights spinning. The birthday-meister lost herself in the music, moving and grinding in ways that got no complaint out of her normally reserved weapon since all that bumping and grinding was occurring against him and was far from unpleasant. Another drink for both of them and he was grinding back enthusiastically and made no protest as she suddenly leaned her face up to kiss him, kissing her back with eagerly. It was sloppy and awkward, but they were both too far gone to care, in the music, the lights, the booze, each other.

When Maka tugged at her weapon's hand to lead him away from the dance floor, Soul again did not protest. When she led him down a hall and through a door and he realized that they were now in some sort of large walk in hall closet, he did manage to get out, as she pushed him against a wall.

"Uh, Maka, I don' think—"

He was cut off by her mouth on his and, more importantly and even better, her hand on the front of his jeans, rubbing him in a way that should probably be illegal with how good it felt. He groaned into her mouth and his hands began exploring her body, her chest, her rear. She wiggled and gasped beneath his touch, encouraging him to explore further, to move his mouth away from hers to begin kissing her neck, relishing in her pleased little mewls.

When her hand stopped stroking through fabric to unfasten his jeans and make its way down, quickly finding hot flesh and grasping it eagerly, he moaned against her neck, gasping her name like a prayer and then moving his own hand down to ride up her thigh and over her panties, stroking the fabric softly.

"Soul," she breathed approvingly, her breath hot against his neck, the stink of alcohol on it almost overwhelming. Something in his warm, fuzzy brain began to click, then. Alcohol. Drunk. She was drunk. He was drunk. This wasn't a dream, though he had had countless such dreams. This was real. They had never crossed this line, had never even shared a kiss that wasn't on the cheek, and yet—here they were. Drunk. In a closet. Groping each other. His finger stilled against her panties and this time she groaned questioningly as he moved his hand to pull hers from his pants.

"Soul?"

"I'm—gonna go get us some water," he panted out, hastily zipping up his jeans. "Just, wait here. Alright?"

"What?" She was confused, hurt, it was clear in her tone. Weren't they just—and hadn't they just? And why was he?

"Look," he let out a shaky breath, backing up once, twice, because he really, really didn't want to cut off what had been going on, but he'd be damned if this was going to happen for the first time drunk in a fucking closet. If he was going to be with his meister, then fuck it all, he wanted to be sure this was something she really wanted, not just a result of booze and hormones. Hazy brain or no, he had enough control to reason out that much. "We're both drunk. Let's just—calm down, maybe drink somethin' that won't kill half our brain cells, and then we can—"

"Oh," Maka's face fell further, her eyes meeting the floor. "Right, I guess you sobered enough to remember my total lack of sex appeal." She had thought things were different, but they weren't. Clearly they weren't. She felt broken at the thought; some birthday this was turning out to be.

"Wha?" He was stunned. "That is _not_ what I meant." It was practically a growl and he took a step back towards her.

"Oh?" her green eyes lifted to meet his, flashing, angry at the challenge in his tone. "And what _did_ you mean, _Soul?"_ she practically spat out his name, as if it were a word too vile to be spoken. He clenched a fist and took two more steps until he was hovering over her. The alcohol was still clouding his judgement, but it did not stifle his anger that she would think this was about her not being good enough some how. That was so opposite the truth that he couldn't stop the words from coming.

"Only," his hands were on her shoulders now, gripping them firmly. "that when I do finally have sex with the _woman I love, _I don't want it to be because we got fuckin' wasted outta our minds in a death damned closet." His face was close to hers and he had to stifle the urge to kiss her again. He was breathing heard, trying to reign in his emotions, reeling from the alcohol, from what he'd just said, what they'd just been doing, all of it.

"Wh—what did you?" Maka's mouth was gaping. "You—love?" she managed to squeak out. They were words she had wanted to hear for years, words she had felt as long, but she had never imagined she would hear them this way. Then again, as her hazy brain began to realign into some sense of reason, she also hadn't imagined her first kiss would be drunk on a dance floor, that she would end up in a closet like this with her weapon on her birthday, but then, the alcohol had left only her wishes intact and her wish had long been to be with him, something that came to the forefront once her inhibitions were left at the door.

"Yeah, I do," he said. "I…" he shook his head, moving to back away, but she took his hands in hers.

"M..me too." She managed, somehow, to keep her eyes on his. "I—yeah, I'm drunk, but that doesn't mean—um—that I don't have those feelings, you know? So yeah."

"Oh," he just looked at her for a long moment. "That's—that's good." He smiled. "That's really good. But, um, I still don't think we should be doin' this, here, now, drunk off our asses."

Maka nodded slowly. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Maybe we could get that water. And, um," she colored brightly, embarrassed through the clearing haze, "Kid told me we could have one of the guest rooms, so we could—mmm—wait up there for awhile and see if, uh, we still, you know." She looked down at her shoes for a minute, then smiled up at him a bit sheepishly.

"Oh, yeah," he ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit. "We could do that. Sure." His own smile was less sheepish than it was hopeful, and as she took his hand to lead him out of the closet, he made no protest. After all, he had promised to follow her anywhere.

It turned out, once the alcohol was largely out of their systems an hour later, they were both still very much willing to continue what they had started earlier and did not hesitate to do so.

The following morning, wrapped up in her weapon's warm, strong arms, Maka couldn't regret having gotten drunk if this was where it led them, couldn't regret what they had done, even if the road here had been bumpy and ridden with potholes. When they did it, their eyes were wide open, the alcohol long gone, but the drinks had granted her a birthday miracle, had finally allowed them to express what both had repressed for far too long.

After that night, every year when Maka's birthday rolled around, they always made their toast with Screwdrivers in hand.


	7. Inked

**A/N: This one is from a prompt from auspicious leader, Soul finds Maka had a badass habit. It is only very lightly smutty. Mostly fluffy. **

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**Inked:**

She was so secretive about it, how could he have known? Sure, there would periodically be a day or two where she claimed to be too sore to sit much, but she was a meister, sometimes they overdid it. Sure he had caught her in a towel a time or twelve seeing that they lived together, but that part of her was always discretely covered. No, he couldn't have known, had no way to know, really.

Of course, he hadn't seen it until they were dating, until they were finally, blissfully, wholly_ together_, and not even the first time. Then it was dark, or they were under covers, and the positioning did not lend to seeing all of her.

It wasn't until one morning, early into their bedsharing, that it happened. She was asleep on her stomach and, while Maka had always been the earlier riser, Soul found that waking up with morning wood with a meister willing and able to help him with his problem had been significant incentive to change his sleeping habits a touch. This morning, for once, he was awake and _aroused_ and trying to gain her sleepy attention by kissing up and down the length of her. As he kissed down first her shoulder, then back, finally reaching her rear beneath the blanket, he noticed that one of her ass cheeks was suspiciously splotchier and darker than the other, and peeled back the cover for better light. As Maka grunted and stirred at the cool air now hitting her backside, he let out a strangled gasp.

Maka had been inked. Maka Albarn, his newly minted lover, his girlfriend, his prudish little bookworm of a meister, had a tattoo, right smack in the middle of one deliciously curvy ass cheek, a tattoo of him, of all things. Well, not _him,_ but him all the same. It was an intricate depiction of his scythe form, put together with dozens upon dozens of miniature souls. It wasn't finished, either. It looked like the artist had finished the haft and a part of the blade, but there was still a lot of him left to complete the picture.

Soul had to admit, it was about the hottest thing he had ever seen. The hottest thing he could imagine, and his arousal became almost painful. The scythe moved up to press himself against her side, breathing in her ear.

"Makaaah."

"Mmm…whazit? Go back t' sleep."

"But how can I sleep when I just saw what you have _on your ass_?" He said lowly in her ear, pressing himself into her side to emphasize his point.

Maka made a move to roll over and face him, but he put a hand on her shoulder to still her.

"No, I wanna be able to see it. It's really fucking hot. I can't believe you got inked."

He saw her back flush red and grinned against her ear.

"When did you—"

"I got the first one after we collected our first soul," she was wide awake now, her breath hitching slightly as he began to kiss and suckle her neck enthusiastically. "It was—hard to find someone who would tattoo someone so young, especially without a parent to give the okay. I had to forge Papa's signature and emphasize his position to get a good artist to agree."

"But why?" Hot as it was, it was hard to imagine her at 14 deciding to do such a thing.

"I—I don't know—I wanted to make sure I'd never forget. What we do, it's important, and it was important to me. At first, it was just a line of souls, but eventually—I asked for it to make a picture of your scythe form since this was something you did as much as me, something we did together, and since making you a deathscythe was the goal, you know? At first I would go in for every new soul we collected, but I only go after there are enough to put a dent in the picture anymore."

"I can't believe I never knew," he lifted his lips from kissing shoulder long enough to grumble.

"I never wanted you to know. Why do you think it was on my _ass? _I didn't want anyone to know, _especially_ not you, at least, not then. It would look pretty bad having a picture of you on my rear, don't you think? I, uh, didn't want you to get the wrong idea." Her flush was back and he smiled, moving back down to her plump bottom to caress this newfound treasure before lavishing it with kisses. After a few minutes of these ministrations, of enjoying the goosebumps he raised and the little sounds of approval she made, he raised his head to look at her silken locks spread around her, covering her back.

"I think I have the wrong idea," he said huskily.

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't," she turned her neck enough to eye him over her shoulder, her seductive little smile setting every nerve on fire.

"Can I watch next time?" he finally asked after a round of kissing every available inch of skin on that side of her body and finally prodding her to turn over and face him. She sat up, then, and they tangled their legs together, hers above, his below, as they faced one another.

"Every time, if you'd like," she smiled softly.

An instant later he was kissing her, or she was kissing him, it hardly mattered, and she was in his lap, him caressing where he knew her ink lay with purpose. Very soon kissing became more, as he had intended all along, and neither could complain about the outcome.

Afterwards, he could only think that that was one hell of a habit she had acquired, and he reveled in the knowledge that his bookworm had always been a badass.


End file.
